


Bad Girls go everywhere

by marlowe78



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Rape/Non-con References, cross-dressing, pretty DeanWinchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe78/pseuds/marlowe78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good girls get torn to shreds, bad girls go everywhere...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Girls go everywhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salacious_newt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salacious_newt/gifts).



> Warnings: Language, bad situations, hurt!dean, unwanted sexual contact and non-con-kissing.
> 
>  a/n: Written for a prompt at hoodie_time for the awesome salacious_newt at a comment-fic meme.  
> Yes, it's an addiction. I am in therapy. 
> 
>  
> 
> This story contains language and phrases and thoughts that are swirling around in an adolescent boy's mind and DO NOT at all represent my thoughts, and not even the thoughts of the grown-up said man will become.  
> For more exact notes, look at the end

Sam was giggling behind him, and he'd been at it for the last... well, two hours or so. “Shut up, Sam, or you'll regret it!” Dean snarled, but that only led to a burst of exaggerated laughter. Growling, he turned around and went after him. Sam squeaked like a stuck pig when he was grabbed, and Dean kicked his legs from under him and started pounding at his chest, arms and stomach, not hard but hard enough that it hurt.

“Dean, stop, ouch, fucker, you asshole, stop that, stop, stop, ouch, DAAAAAD!”

“Dean... let him up.”

“But he started it!”

“And you're the older, supposedly more grown-up, so you'll be ending it. Now; because you're also smart enough to know that you really, really do not want me to end it for ya. Got me?”

Well, put like that...

Dean sighed and stood, not surprised when Sammy swiftly vaulted over the bed and stuck his tongue out, and not at all surprised that Dad hadn't even turned away from the text he was reading. He glared at his brother, who grinned like a freaking loon, and he looked like a clown with his stupid grin on his face.

“I'll get ya, just wait,” he whisper-promised, but the brat just smirked, forming 'Yeah, yeah, Deanna' with his lips, not making a sound.

“You finished, boy?” Dad looked up now, taking in his clothes and … appearance. Then he sighed, maybe with a hint of disappointment, maybe in annoyance, it wasn't easy to separate these days. “You look like you just came out of a bargain-sale-battle, and not as the winner.”

Sam giggled again, but a glare in his direction from Dad stopped him at once, turning the smirk into a sullen glare and pout. Like it was Dad's fault he was an immature little geekboy.

“Go, get your skirt in order and do your hair. Why didn't ya use the make-up I brought ya?”

Dean didn't turn towards Sam, because he would probably kill the little asshole if he had to see his triumphant, ugly mug.

**

“Turn around.”

Dean did.

“Ok, wait.” Dad pulled at the skirt on his backside a little, did something with the blouse, maybe tugging it out of the belt or maybe putting more of it inside, Dean didn't care. Then he grabbed his shoulders and turned him again, taking in his appearance with great care and deliberation. Dean could feel himself blush under the scrutiny. “Yeah. Not too bad.”

Without even a warning, he grabbed at Dean's chest, wiggling the cushions in his bra, shaking him a little to see how they would move. It was humiliating, and Dean was glad that he, at least, was a guy and all this was just checking him for anything that would give him away as such. He'd die if he were a real chick and his dad would touch him like this. “Yeah, looks good enough. I'd be fooled, I guess. Now, for the hair...”

Dean groaned as his dad pulled a wig out of a paper-bag that, until then, had stood innocently in the corner of the room. He was glad Sammy-asshole had finally been shoved out of the bathroom, even though it'd meant Dad coming in with him to check his progress.

“Put it on, kiddo, it's the expensive kind.”

Murmuring under his breath, Dean obeyed, pulling first the mandatory stocking and then the fake hair over his own, short spikes. Well, not spikes now, Dad had told him to wash the gel out before dressing him up like a play-doll. He stood with the back to the mirror, facing Dad who was contemplating him, lips between his teeth. Now and then, he tugged at the wig until he was finally satisfied, fixating it to the stocking with some hair-pins.

“Good. Now, sit on the toilet, face the wall.”

He brushed Dean's hair – well, the fake hair, long and silky and blond – then started braiding it in a long plait, slightly off-center so it hung over his shoulder, heavy and warm and uncomfortably similar to a snake.

“Turn around.” Dad checked him once more, brushing a few loose strands from his eyes and behind his ears. He smiled a little wistfully, and though it was a good look on him, Dean felt a bit uncomfortable.

“Dad?”

He cleared his throat before his smile turned into the much more familiar grin, still full of affection but not so wistful anymore. “Looking good there, kid. Now, close your eyes, chin up.”

It felt weird, but not really bad, to have someone apply eye-shadow and kohl to his lids, and even the cream, powder and little patches of rouge to his cheekbones were less disturbing and more tender than he'd expected. Which, of course, made it a lot disturbing on its own.

“Lips out.” He did. “Good, press them together... Yeah. Good.”

Dad took a step back, tilting his head a little before he grinned, nodding and strangely proud.

“That'll do, son. Wanna check my handiwork?”

Of course he wanted. He had to at least know what kind of joke he would be when he stepped outside of the bathroom.

But the face in the mirror shocked him. It... was his face. It did what he commanded his face to do, raised an eyebrow, pursed its lips, smiled and frowned. Still, it looked... that...

“Dad?” he asked, a little scared of what he saw. He felt his father step behind him, then looked up to see him in the mirror, big and burly and strong and so fucking male. Dean had never seen himself as anything but male, never seen himself as … well, fragile, if you had to know it. He was Dean Winchester, a hunter, a killer. He knew his way with guns and knives and how to use his strength. He could repair a car if he had to, and teach his little brother the best tricks to win a fight – dirty, if you had to. But now, like this? He looked... smaller. Narrower. His fake breasts made him seem slim and curvy where he'd thought of himself as muscular, or at least sinewy, and his face... Fuck, his face looked fucking pretty!

It scared the crap out of him that he wouldn't hesitate to ask that girl in the mirror to a movie, or take her to bed.

“Don't worry. Nobody's gonna notice, Dean.”

Yeah, as if that was the problem here. He swallowed, hard. “Showtime, I guess, huh?”

**

Stepping out of the door, following Dad, Dean anticipated jokes, taunts and teasing. Anything, really, but Sam was silent. Not 'I'm-gonna-make-you-clean-all-the-tools-and-vacuum-the-car-if-you-joke-about-him'-silent, no. He was stunned, slack-jawed, staring at him like there was a kangaroo walking out of the bathroom instead of his brother.

It made him feel itchy all over, and Dean squirmed, trying to tug the skirt a little lower. It was already down over his knees, because apparently “bow-legs are not what guys find attractive on a girl”, but he would've preferred it if it hid him better. Like, all over.

“What?” he glared, because when in doubt, attack. “There something on my nose?”

“Uh... no. No, fine. Uh, Dad, he doesn't really sound like a girl, does he?”

“Shut up, Sam!”

“No, but apart from hormone-therapy, there's not much we can do about it.” Dad smiled at him reassuringly, so Dean supposed he must've looked like he actually feared they'd give him hormones. Which, stupid, right? “But I don't think he needs ta talk much anyway.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Uh... Ok, I...I checked the most logical place for the trap. Look, we gotta get here and then...” In tune, the three of them turned to the technical part of the plan and Dean drank up the information like a dying man would swallow water.

He was supposed to be the bait, after all.

**

In all his times as bait, and that was a pretty long list, he'd not really been afraid. Dad was always there, he always had his back, and if not, well, Dean sure could kick ass long enough to hold his own until Dad would come.

Because Dad always came. Always. There'd never been a time when Dad didn't come for him, or Dean'd feared he might not. Never, not even when he'd been...huh, must've been eleven or so, one of his first real hunts Dad took him with. Sammy'd been stashed with the neighbors kid, Tommy? Timmy? Toni? Something like that.

He was supposed to go into the house and act like he was a scared little boy, and yeah, well, he hadn't really been too thrilled, he could admit that now. But he'd never doubted Dad would come save him, not for a moment. And he had! He'd killed the rawhead, with electricity, and then he'd taken Dean for a burger and fries, and even got him a milkshake after.

It's been some time since then, and he'd learned to kick ass, and he could shoot like a pro, Dad always said. But now, here? Walking through the darkest alleys like a girl that wanted to get home quickest? Now he felt small and scared. Vulnerable like never before, not even that time he'd sat in that swimming-pool-hall at night, only wearing his swimming trunks and waiting for that weird ghost to show up.

He wasn't as skimpy-clad now, but somehow, the loose skirt that was swirling around his legs made him feel like he was stark naked. Fuck, if girls felt that way every time, he wondered how they ever left the house.

Then again, most girls he knew wore jeans. He liked that, the girls in jeans. Tight jeans especially... But noooo, Sam had laughed his ass off when he'd come out wearing jeans and the blouse. Said he looked like a chick-soccer-captain or like Jane Wayne. Asshole. 'twas his fault he had to wear the freaking skirt, Dad'd never have noticed!

Maybe. Probably.

Whatever.

Sighing, he trudged on. Remembered the police-reports but tried to not think about the bloody pictures. Sure, he wouldn't get hurt like the girls had been, he was a hunter, he had his silver knife in the sleeve of his jacket and he had enough salt in his pockets. It was probably a werewolf, but Sam thought it could be a ghost as well, there'd been this girl in the 80s who'd been killed and gutted, so he said it could be her ghost haunting the alleys.

Man, they'd argued back and forth so long, up until Dean'd just had enough and had packed the salt into his pockets, so everyone could see. “You always say it doesn't hurt to be extra-cautious, Dad.” That had ended the argument quickly, though Sammy had of course smirked like he'd won. Little punk.

Could still be a werewolf, though. Man, he so wanted to hunt a werewolf! He'd never even seen one, but Dad said it's nothing special, they don't even look like wolves. Still. Damn, how cool. Sad only that vampires weren't real.

Something clattered behind him, and he turned, quickly scanning the darkness. A cat yowled and another answered, both singing that strangely loud, dangerous song he'd heard so freaking often now. For some reasons, those little beasts liked to yowl right in front of their motels.

Still, it wasn't just the cats. There was more, though Dean couldn't back his feeling on anything. But it was there, Dad always said to pay mind to his gut, and he did. And his gut told him that he better get to where they had planned the trap to spring, cause while he knew Dad would come to him if he yelled loud enough, he'd rather not cry for help.

He hurried his steps, vaguely aware that it would pretty much strengthen his cover, because every smart girl would walk faster now. Course, no smart girl would walk through here, so...

Mentally, he ran over what he knew about this... thing. It was nocturnal. It ripped the girls to shreds. It was always after young girls, teenagers, no older'n fifteen. Usually blond, but there'd been a redhead and a pretty Chinese kid in between the stack of victims. It hunted every other month, and why the police never realized it was exactly when there was a full moon, Dean didn't know. Maybe they never even knew what kind of moon it was? Wasn't easy to see it in this big a city anyway. That all said 'werewolf', but Sammy said the chick – the dead one from the 80s – had been killed during a full moon, so... yeah. Could still be a ghost.

Or even the ghost of a werewolf. How cool would that be!

He trudged on, going through the options if it really were a were-ghost and still keeping the sounds in the alley in his mind. Dad'd be pissed if he found out he'd got distracted.

A creak and slam startled him and he turned, trying to see what it was. A cranky-looking woman closed her window-pane, a gloomy lamplight hitting her face so it was covered in sharp shadows and angles. She looked like a witch, but Dad'd told them early on that witches usually didn't look like in the fairytales, were mostly stunningly beautiful instead.

Dean turned back around, taking the corner to the left to enter the last stretch of alley until he'd hit the open field were they'd set the trap, where the girls had turned up shredded and dead. He shrieked very unmanly when he bumped into an unexpected obstacle, which turned out to be the protruding belly of some middle-aged, balding dude in an ugly, dark-blue jogging-suit.

Shit, he'd nearly taken out his knife at that guy until he realized he was only human, neither a snarling monster nor a see-through ghost. Muttering an apology, he shifted around the man, speaking low and a bit high so he wouldn't blow his cover in case the werewolf was watching. Or the ghost.

It wasn't not much further, and Dean was thinking about what they could do next, if this turned out to be a bust. Maybe they needed to let Sammy play dress-up, that'd serve him right. Of course, Dad wouldn't let Sam play bait, and Dean agreed, at least principally. He'd make an exception, though, if Sammy were wearing a dress. He snickered a little, and that, of course, was when something slammed into him from behind, toppling him over and clamping a rough claw over his mouth so he didn't get a chance to scream. Dean hit the ground heavily, a sharp pain against his sternum knocking the breath out of him and the lumpy weight that was clawing and pawing and trying to rip into him on his back didn't help getting it back.

For a moment, things got kinda blurry.

**

When air and wit was back available, Dean realized a few things at once.

First, that wasn't a paw, but a rough, large hand over his mouth, pressing so hard his jaw hurt. Second, the thing on his back wasn't clawing him, or rather, it was clawing at him, just not in the way he'd expect a werewolf to do. Since it was still on his back, not yet ripping his heart out, Dad's theory was pretty much busted.

Sam's too, though, because that was not a ghost on him. Much too heavy, and it wasn't cold but warm, sweaty-warm, and it was pawing his clothes instead of his vital organs, and breathing down his neck. And ewww, it was licking him!

„Hmmgh!“ he growled, anger taking over the state of shock he'd been in before. He kicked and struggled, tried to dislodge that smelly thing. One hand got free from where it had been pinned underneath him, and he reached around to grip it, tear at it.

It was when his brain connected the dots with the feel of the cloth under his fingers that he realized it was a jogging-suit, and very probably a dark-blue one. That's when he got really fucking pissed, because it was one thing to be tackled by a monster, but totally another when it was just a fucking human asshole. He growled and moved his jaw, biting at the hand over his mouth, at the same time kicking and bucking up to get free.

The guy draped over him moaned, and for a second, Dean thought he'd hurt him. But the movements against his ass where pretty telling, as the guy started humping him, his lumpy hard-on pressing against his skimpy skirt. And no, nope, no, that wasn't gonna happen. Nope. He could fight ghosts and monsters, he'd killed his own rawhead already and he wasn't a fucking weak girl, so there was no way he'd not get this fucker off him.

Dean struggled and tuned out the man's dirty huffing, his panted breaths, and he certainly did not at all notice when something hot-wet spread over his bare leg.

“You fucking cunt, stop struggling, you bitch!”

He'd not give this pervert the satisfaction, nope, he wouldn't stop. So he didn't, kicked and writhed and the man finally lost the grip on his jaw so Dean could bite down on the rough, sweaty hand. He bit hard, so hard he could feel something part, and that wasn't just skin. His mouth filled with blood and it was running down his lips and onto the gravel they were struggling on, and he knew, distantly, that he should call for help, call for Dad, but holding this meaty paw between his teeth and hearing the godawful, held-down scream from over him gave him a jolt of satisfaction that he wasn't prepared to lose. Not yet.

The man hissed and moaned in pain, but he used his considerably weight, dug his knees into Dean's spine and used his other hand to grab his head. Even though it was a wig, it gave him enough grip to slam his head to the ground, hard. Dean saw stars and fireflies and his jaw loosened without his command. Slightly, but it was enough. The fucking pervert grabbed him and flipped him around like Dean weighted nothing, the bloody hand slipping and sliding over his face and clothes, gripping his fake boobs while his good hand once again slammed his head down hard.

Vaguely, through mist and over the ringing in his ears, Dean was aware of him talking, muttering vile things at him, how he was a cunt, like any other, tempting him, seducing him, trying to get him to lose control, but he'd show him, he'd show everyone what a slut Dean was, how his real insides looked and very, very distantly, Dean thought he should've pressed Dad for more details on the police-reports, not just taking his “ripped to shreds, not much else to say 'bout it” at face-value. Sammy wouldn't have...

“Slut, slutty slut, all you ever want's the same, all you ever want is dick, all you ever try t'do with me 's fuck. I show you, I'll show you, fucking cunt, I'll rip it apart, your valley of sin, rip it, tear it, cut it off, cut it up, show them all what you are, what a dirty fucking cunt you are, what you have inside ya ugly soul!”

The man's paw yanked on Dean's jacket, tearing the jeans cloth in his haste and fury, shoving it down to Dean's elbows so his arms were trapped against his sides. He was sitting on his legs, and weakly, Dean tried to kick him but his head hurt too much, angry spikes driving through his eyes right into his brain. He couldn't do more than turn his head a little when the asshole bent over and kissed him hard and dirty.

He shoved his tongue down deep, one hand on his neck and the other, the bloody one, slipped its finger into the corners of Dean's mouth so he couldn't bite down on the disgusting, slippery, eely piece of meat. Words formed against Dean's lips, angry snarls filled with lust and loathing in equal measures. “Pretty, pretty, so pretty, but so ugly inside, yeah, yeah, ugh, so ugly, so pretty, ugh...mmmmh, gonna rip you apart, make you suffer, jus' like you d'serve, you cunt!”

The man let go of Dean's throat then, feeling lower, touching his belly where the blouse had been ripped open and out of the skirt, dipping into the waistband before he pulled it away and pushed up Dean's skirt.

He was still fucking his mouth with his cigarette-scented tongue when his hand grabbed underneath the cloth, along the inside of Dean's thighs, reaching higher, higher just...

Everything stopped.

The tongue disappeared out of Dean, the psycho's movements stilled mostly, except for the fingers that were now feeling between Dean's legs, tugging at his balls and dick like he wanted to check if they were really attached to him. They were, which was why it hurt when he squeezed, and Dean groaned in pain.

“What...” Angry, the man yanked the hand back from down there – thank god – and instead tore into Dean's blouse, ripping it completely and tearing away the bra and the fake tits. “What??”

Everything hurt. Every movement of his head was like a shard behind his eyeballs, there was disgusting saliva and blood all over his teeth and in his mouth and someone had had his hand where it didn't belong, and yet, Dean grinned. Because the face of the man was priceless!

“Asshole, didn't expect that,” he wanted to say, something cocky and smart, but he didn't get out more than a croak until the psycho found his few wits again, the look of shock morphing into cold hatred. He'd had a crazy shine in his eyes before, but now he was … completely out of it.

“What, in the name of Jesus, are you?” He didn't want an answer, apparently, because his fist hit Dean right in the mouth. “Abomination, fake, unreal, undeserving! Subhuman, I... I can't even...” and he hit again. And again, then jumped up and started kicking, kicking at Dean's head, his belly, his legs, his ass and groin, everything he could reach, anything he could connect to. For a split-second, Dean was just glad the psycho was wearing jogging shoes, not boots. He soon didn't care about the foot-wear, though

Dean'd curled up the moment the weight had been gone from him, trying to protect his abdomen and head as best as he could, though that left his kidneys and thighs, his ribs and back to this maniac, and even though he'd been plenty scared of what that man would do to him before, now he was terrified. He would die here, he suddenly realized, kicked to shit by nothing more than a crazy human.

For the very first time in his life, Dean thought that his dad might not be fast enough

**

Somewhere between getting a shoe into his side so hard that he toppled over onto his back and now, he must've lost consciousness for a moment. Not too long, because he wasn't in a hospital with beeping machines or in the motel-room on a moderately comfortable bed but on his side, in the dirt, on the hard, gravelly ground in the dark. The only thing that told him there was a time-lapse was that there were no kicks anymore, and he could hear muffled punches somewhere to his left. That was when someone rushed nearer, gravel flying away when he stopped abruptly, and Dean tensed in anticipation of more pain.

“Dean!”

Oh good, Sammy. No kicks.

“Dean... oh God, Dean... Oh no... Dad... DAD!”

Everything was pretty fuzzy and dull, Sam's voice sounded like he was talking into a barrel and everything else seemed like it was underwater. Even the pain wasn't as sharp anymore, and that was really nice. Very nice. Nearly as good as no pain at all...

“Dean?”

Dad. Oh. Cool. So he wasn't dead, that was probably … good.

“Can you hear me, kiddo? Dean?”

Maybe he should answer? He tried moving his lips, but taking a breath hurt and what came out of his mouth was a hollow moan from somewhere deep inside.

“That's okay, boy, we'll getcha outta here. Sammy, can ya bring the car?”

“But Dad...”

“Please? I don't want that … man over there waking up when it's just you and Dean here.”

Sammy took off, Dean could hear it. The gravel again, and he appreciated it, he really did. Carefully, he tried to get his hand to grab his dad's arm, just for some contact, but even the thought of moving anything hurt him and he...didn't.

“Dean... I'd never, never thought it was a human. Never.” Listening was okay. No movement necessary. “If I'd known... Oh boy. I...” Dean felt a hand hover above him, and he wanted to be touched, yes, he did, no matter if that made him a chick or something, but … but... what if it hurt? Right now, everything was … well, manageable. He'd probably scream like a banshee if someone touched him. Oh God, they had to get him into the car!

“D'd...”

“Shhh, 's okay. We got ya. Don't worry.”

“H'rts,” he breathed, knowing Dad would get it.

“I know, I know, kiddo. We'll get you to hospital, if it's too much, okay? But … Dean, I need to check you over, first. Need to...” his voice dropped into a scratchy croak “need to see if your spine's okay. I know, I know it's gonna hurt, but … I thought it's better when Sam's not here, huh?”

Checking over? That probably meant uncurling? Touching? Moving?

Dean really wasn't sure if he wanted to do any of that. He'd rather stay here for the rest of his life. On the gravel.

“Dean?”

Very, very carefully, he nodded. 's not that there was much a choice, was there?

“Okay, just... just take a breath.”

Dean did.

**

Next thing he knew, he was on his side. In the car, since he was moving without being upright. A leg was under his head, and someone was gripping his shoulder very tight, maybe because he would fall of the seat, or maybe because that someone thought he might slip away entirely.

“S'm?”

“Dean? Oh... Dad, he's awake!”

“We're there soon, don't worry Sam. Deano? You okay?”

“Hmhm,” he murmured, though it was too low against the sounds of the car. Dean wasn't sure if Dad even expected an answer here. He still felt like every cell in his body was bruised, slightly curled up again and not just because he was too long for the car.

Peaking up through the side-window, Dean saw them approaching the brightly-lit hospital, felt Sammy sit up a bit and Dad slow down the car. It felt like some sense of impending doom was lifting in the confines of the Impala, and if he hadn't had much more important issues, Dean would be worried about his chances of survival.

“Sk'rt? S'm, gerroff!”

“What?”

It was important, suddenly, to get those freaky girl's clothes off of him. He didn't want to be in a skirt, he was a guy, he didn't want the nurses to think he was some kind of.. .some freak, wearing a blouse and a skirt and a wig – oh God, the wig!

Frantic, he tried to grip his fake hair, tried to get it off him, away from him, tried to be back to Dean Winchester, hunter, and away from Deanna Winchester, stupid, crossdressing freak that nearly got raped for his stupidity.

A sharp, unbelievable pain tore through his guts when he moved his arm, though, and he cried out which had nearly the same effect. Dean tried to reverse everything, but it only got worse and while he felt Sam move and twist and grab and hold him, heard him shouting something at Dad, heard Dad shouting something back, he saw a dark, puffy cloud darkening his view. It started from the outside of his vision, clouding it up more and more, like thick, ugly smoke until he couldn't see anything anymore, and the voices dulled to nothing.

Luckily, that was when everything stopped hurting, too.

**

This time, when he woke, it was because someone wouldn't stop prodding him, moving him and jerking on his arms and legs. It didn't hurt as much, though, and then he was being lifted and laid on something soft.

Voices drifted around in his head, and he caught some parts that got stuck in his brain instead of flying right out of it without comprehension.

“...abdominal bleeding?”

“..fractured. Get an x-ray, Jim!”

“...ribs. Check the cheekbone as well.”

“And get the ultrasound!”

That woke him from his comfortable numbness. Ultrasound? He wasn't a girl! If they thought he was a girl, they'd be … well, whatever, but he didn't want them believe he was a girl. He wasn't a girl!

“He's awake, Karen!”

“Shit, keep him down, shit, he's fighting, can't you hold him? Hell, dammit, don't...”

Someone was holding him, and every bit of fear he had about being mistaken for a chick was pushed way back into his mind. Someone was holding him, holding him down, and it would hurt, they might hurt him, he knew that, he didn't want to be hurt again, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...

“Dean!”

He froze. Dad. Dad was here, he was there, he was holding him down. That was Dad's hand on his shoulder, not some...some freak's. He calmed, felt himself slipping again, listened to the string of nonsense that was flowing right into his ear, felt himself relax into the voice of his dad that was whispering, breathing right into his brain, telling him to sleep. Sleep was a pretty good idea, so he obeyed.

**

“Dad, he's waking!”

A soft whisper to his left. Dean smacked his lips, puffy and ripping open when he moved them. It didn't hurt, and that was weird considering the taste of blood on his tongue. His tongue was stuffy, too.

“Ugh....”

“Hey, kiddo. You're okay, you'll survive.”

“Da'? S'mmy?”

“Yes, we're here, both, we're here.” Sam was chirping, he didn't do that often, only when he was stressed. So careful now not to sound like a chipmunk. Dean smiled, since his lips were open anyway.

“H'ppned?”

“You got... beaten up.” No kidding. Very, very slowly, he moved his finger in a circle trying to say that he knew that already.

“He wants to know about after,” Sammy jumped in. Good kid. “We took you to the hospital. You've got... uh... broken ribs. And your arm's broken. Uhm...”

“You took a halloffa beating, son. But nothing permanent, and they just need you to stay here for a bit in case your noggin' got a too hard kick. Internal bleeding has to be monitored, but they think it'll heal without surgery.”

Surgery? Everything that was avoiding surgery was good, he thought. Goody-good. Really goody-good. He felt himself smile and his blinks got less and less, eyes staying closed longer and longer.

He heard “...back to sleep, we'll be here” and thought that was pretty awesome, too, and closed his eyes again.

**

It took a few days until he was well enough to start bitching. Sitting around, even though his legs and ass still hurt like hell, was just plain annoying, and that one nurse was so freaking hot, with such awesome boobies – and while usually, that'd be a good thing, right now it just... hurt. Because his dick reacting to boobies was so not pleasant right now, and even the thought of getting a hard-on made him cringe.

So when Dad and Sam took him back to the motel, he was swearing to himself to not even think about any kind of girl until taking a piss didn't hurt so damn much anymore.

For a week or so, Sammy was careful and treated him like he was made of glass, but when he complained about not being a chick, he sure wished he hadn't.

“Dad, Deanna wants us to bring a milkshake. Chocolate.”

“Shud ub, assmunsh,” he murmured, his jaw still aching from a well-aimed punch. Sam just giggled, much more like a frigging girl than even Dean in a skirt would be, and slipped out the door before he could grab the water-glass to throw after him. One good thing about having your right arm broken was that he really improved his left-handed aim. Even Dad had been impressed when he slogged the remote-control at Sam's head from across the room.

He sighed, leaning back into his pillows. He wasn't an invalid, not as such, but there were still so many aches and pains all over him, in every muscle and joint, that he preferred half-sitting in a pile of soft things. He hadn't even been too embarrassed when Dad'd brought him a double-set from Wal-Mart. He'd not even cared – much – about the little bitch teasing him about it for a whole day.

“Wait, forgot the wallet,” he heard through the closed door. Dad was back inside and his eyes roamed the room until they stopped on him, not the wallet that was lying right beside the window. “Dean?”

“Huh?”

Dad stepped in, sat down beside him. Uncomfortably, Dean shuffled a bit, not sure what this was gonna be about.

“You know, the hospital asked me why you were wearing a skirt. Told 'em it was a bet,” he winked, and Dean felt like a huge rock just fell from his chest. It wasn't that he'd been thinking about that the whole time, no, not at all. Except for how he had, a little, at night, thought about how the psycho had grabbed him and only realized he was a guy when he'd found his dick. And it wasn't that he stared at himself in the mirror every evening, trying to see past the bruises, trying to spot what he'd always taken for granted before. Trying to spot the boy that should be underneath all the black and blue and red. It wasn't, but... well. Sometimes, he did that. And he tried, he really did, unseeing what the psycho had seen, tried to shove the association of pretty, female, delicate, kissable, plumb back down where it had lain before, always. He was not a girl, he knew that, the pain in his dick told him so every time he moved wrong, but... but... Just but.

“Yeah, they asked me 'bout what kinda bet. So... I figured.”

“Dean, I'm so damn proud of you. You know that?”

He nodded, because he did. Sorta. Kinda. Was still nice to hear it, though.

“I am. And Sam's just jerking your chain. He doesn't think you're a girl, and I don't think so either. And you know what? I'll tell you a secret.”

He leaned down, glancing at the still-open door before whispering in his ear.

“When I was in the army, they kept calling me Babyface-Winchester. Cause I had these huge eyes, and well, I sorta maybe might've looked a bit like a girl. Or, you know, a kid.” Dad smiled, scratching his neck, and Dean really had a hard time believing that. Because, uh, well... His Dad? Looking like a girl? Right.

“Uhm, kay?”

“And I'll tell ya another secret. I … well, sometimes when your ...” he swallowed, looked away for a moment until he met Dean's eyes again, a familiar and yet still achy sadness in them. “When Mary was still alive, I thought how it would be if we'd had a girl instead of two boys. And I know, husbands are supposed to want sons, but I thought it would be cool to have a daughter to show her how to build a cabinet, and how to change a tire and how to work on an engine.” he smirked. “Mary was certain your brother was gonna be a girl. I told her it didn't matter, but she said 'John, a mother knows this kinda things, men wouldn't understand' – so, you know...” he winked again “we were pretty surprised when Sammy turned out to be Samuel rather than Samantha.”

Dean grinned, and it didn't matter one bit that his jaw complained about that, or that the skin on his cheekbone stretched uncomfortably over it. Even the pain in his ribs from the chuckle in his chest didn't matter, because Dad was grinning at him, his eyes sparkling like they used to do, much, much earlier, and like they did sometimes, when he thought no-one was looking. Usually about Sammy, but Dean kindasorta figured that he kept just missing his own sparkle. Since, you know, he would be looking and all.

“Really?”

“Yepp, really-really. So, if the kid keeps diggin' atcha,that's just because right now, you can't kick his ass. To say it with the words of a very, very smart man: Patience, young grasshopper.”

He smiled, clapped him softly on his knee, then stood to leave. “Vanilla, I gather?”

And well, getting the shit kicked outta you wasn't so bad. Bit annoying, and he wouldn't make it a habit, Dean supposed while he slowly inched himself into a comfortable position. But overall, there were worse things that could happen.

Now, if he could only get the remote back from across the room...

~fin

**Author's Note:**

> I personally (and I think adultDean as well) would never judge anyone by gender, sexuality, clothing-preference, hair-colour, hair-length, etc, nor would I ever call anyone a 'freak' who likes to wear women's clothes.  
> Beware, though, that Dean is a teenager in the 90s in my story, and his views are a little skewed by upbringing, surrounding, other teenagers and, of course, stress.


End file.
